


Warm Silk

by cinnamondonut (cinnamxn)



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson, 楽しいムーミン一家 | Moomin (Anime 1990)
Genre: An Almagamation of Different Canons, Apologies, Bathing/Washing, Crying, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Light Angst, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Post Moominvalley in November, Potentially Romantic, Queerplatonic Relationships, Sickfic, Smoking, Snusmumriken | Snufkin is Bad at Feelings, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-15 20:35:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19303354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamxn/pseuds/cinnamondonut
Summary: A cold, to those sheltered against them, occurs in the form of a tickle in the throat, a pale, clammy pelt and that deep, internal chill that makes one lethargic all day. For Snufkin, these are a hallmark of the season, and one cannot expect to completely avoid them. He is accustomed to them.He really, truly, knows how to deal with this.Yet the symptoms worsen still.





	1. The Cold From November

**Author's Note:**

> Try not to hold this too strongly against any one 'canon' and accept that I have smushed several canons together and added my own flair. I'm so glad to finally join in on this wonderful, wholesome fandom. Spoilers for "Moominpappa at Sea", "Moominvalley in November" and to an extent "Comet in Moominland".

Snufkin is no stranger to colds. In winter, there’s only so much one can do to avoid becoming sick. Usually it happens earlier – when he’s stayed behind far too long and has had to climb the Lonely Mountains in the deep snow. He knows where he can find the herbs and fruits to ease him into recovery. He knows when it’s time to rest and when it’s time to move to better weather.

This time, however, the cold strikes him in November, before he even has a chance to leave Moominvalley. It hits him in the moment he realises the full scope of pain he’s put Moomin through. Waiting in Moominvalley for someone who he dares hope will return. Moomin doesn’t, and Snufkin feels sorrowful for every hasty, apathetic letter he’s ever forgotten to leave Moomin, so he writes a letter that’s still apathetic and brief, but written over hours and hours of thought.

Then he leaves for the season, knowing that he has to make it to the place at the bottom of the Lonely Mountains where the best herbs grow wildly, and there’s a cave that’s perfect to stay overnight. This would have been enough to heal him any other winter, but when it doesn’t, Snufkin doesn’t worry too much. He decides, simply, that he has not escaped the season on time. To heal, he will need to travel to a warmer climate.

He expects that it will take a few days to recover once he outruns the snow and the storms. Instead, he finds that his ailment has only become more severe.

A cold, to those sheltered against them, occurs in the form of a tickle in the throat, a pale, clammy pelt and that deep, internal chill that makes one lethargic all day. For Snufkin, these are a hallmark of the season, and one cannot expect to completely avoid them. He is accustomed to them.

He really, truly, knows how to deal with this.

Yet the symptoms worsen still.

By the time he reaches the Southern cities, he’s waking every morning with a terrible fit of coughing, and the nights are so dreadfully nippy, even bundled by his fire, that he has to sleep frequently during the day just to keep going.

He manages despite: somebody needs to catch fish to cook and trade, and there’s nobody else with him. As soon as he finds a city that’s quiet enough and unfamiliar enough to feel private for a time, he spends a whole morning fishing, catching far more than one Mumrik could possibly eat before it spoils.

It’s plenty to replenish his diminishing stocks. He finds a Fillyjonk who trades a minnow for a jar of coffee grounds, and a family who eagerly accepts his largest trout for the price of a box of biscuits and jars of vegetable preserves. It’s the herbalist he goes to for tobacco who makes the first comment on his condition.

He’s a doddery old Hemulen, and he scrutinises Snufkin at the first words out of his mouth, which are, “The people here say you’re the one to ask for Tobacco. I don’t suppose you would trade some for some fresh fish?”

“Your voice is rather hoarse,” The Herbalist replies, and Snufkin is much too ill to deal with rudeness. “Are you sure that smoking is the best thing right now?”

The thought crosses that he should just leave. He is tired. He is numb. But another thought, of having to wait until the next town for tobacco makes him irritable enough to endure. “Yes.” It takes a great deal of strength to hold the bucket beneath the Hemulen’s nose. “Are you willing to trade, or not?”

The Herbalist hesitates for a moment, then reaches for the bucket. But when his paw touches it he jerks back violently. “It’s cold!” he cries.

Snufkin furrows his brow. “What ever do you mean?”

“The bucket,” continues The Herbalist, his voice quivering, weak with surprise. “The handle is so cold, how do you hold it?”

“Now surely it isn’t that bad,” Snufkin titters, “If you need, I can move the fish myself, just tell me where to put them.” He waits for The Herbalist to answer, but instead the stubborn Hemulen is staring at where his paws curl around the handle.

“May I?” The Herbalist asks, and not sure what he’s being asked, Snufkin only replies with a questioning hum. The Herbalist reaches, touching Snufkin’s paws instead, and there’s that sharp intake of air that can’t be good and Snufkin pulls away from The Herbalist entirely. “Your paws, too!” he gasps. “They’re so cold.”

“I have a cold,” Snufkin explains, “It’s not so unusual.”

“A strange cold indeed,” declares the Herbalist, shaking now. It surely comes from a place of genuine concern, but Snufkin can’t help but feel annoyed by it. “Normally, the freezing air would change our bodies. But it seems that your freezing body is changing the air.”

Snufkin hums again, feigning disinterest. The Herbalist has many things to say, and begs Snufkin to remain in town longer so he can study the sickness, but once Snufkin’s got his pouch filled again, he returns to his tent. There, he packs up his things and moves on.

Disturbed by the interaction, Snufkin spends the next couple of weeks as isolated as he can. He manages to find a burrow in the side of a hill, that isn’t so deep or complex as to invite dangerous creatures, but is solid enough that it provides plenty of warmth when coupled with a fireplace near the mouth. The only downside is that it is quite a way from the nearest river. He need not speak with a voice that grinds like a knife on stone walls, however, and no person is threatened by the strangeness of his cold.

Snufkin manages to stay there until his biscuits run out, and it’s time to return to Moomivalley. Even with all that time and rest, however, the ice has only dug itself deeper in his lungs. For days he had hardly left the cave, watching it turn glacial at his presence and scaring away the plants that tried to sprout betwixt the rocky outcrops. Even when he made his way to the river to fish, he found that the fish did not swim near where he sat, and the grass below began to wilt.

So he moves on. By the time he reaches Moominvalley from here, it will be Spring. Moomintroll, he hopes, will be home again.

Perhaps, however, he wishes otherwise. Perhaps, it would be for the best if Moomintroll wasn’t there, and Snufkin could wait until his sickness passes to see him. Only once he arrives will he know for sure whether Moomin is waiting for him, whether he has read his latest letter, whether he still cares for his old, careless friend after whatever growing he’s done while away.

Snufkin avoids distractions on his fortnight’s journey back to Moominvalley. No cities, no towns. His pace is much slower than he would like, and he sleeps more hours than he cares to admit, mostly during the day when it is easier to keep warm. He shivers almost constantly, and his breath is so heavy that he dare not touch his harmonica, knowing all too well he hasn’t the lungs to play it.

He breathes in smoke for heat, but it makes him cough, and he’s running low again. Little Creeps watch him pass as he reaches the base of the Lonely Mountain, but they keep away from him. Even Teety-Woo, who admires him so, watches only from afar as Snufkin travels through the night, leaving a stream of smoke and fog behind him on a path of withering grass.

By the time he’s descending into the Valley, he’s walking along a familiar path with only his memories to stee him. His mind is somewhere distant and hopeful, his whole body shaking and clumsy. It’s much too early in the morning for anybody else to be out, so he doesn’t notice her until he runs into her.

His face sinks into her fur a moment before the impact drops him to the floor.

“Cold…” she murmurs, a puff of warm air escaping that monstrous mouth.

Snufkin, lucky to have not choked on his pipe, drops to the floor where it’s contents have spilled. The pipe itself is still in perfect shape, but he watches dejectedly as the last embers fade from their brilliant orange. “It’s you.”

He doesn’t look at her, eyes firmly fixed on the ground until he can pull his tobacco pouch out. He puts the pipe on his lips again, refilling it with shavings and lighting it with closed eyes. “The cold is something I’d imagine you’d be quite used to by now.”

“Not... _my_ cold.” The Groke adds, reaching out to Snufkin. He looks at her for a moment – at her wide, worried frown, at the thick sheets of fur surrounding her and the spidery paws she holds out for him. Shocked momentarily, Snufkin allows her to take his paw. He does not revel in how warm the touch is, and averts his eyes again once he’s standing, pulling his backpack close around him.

“Moomintroll… Have you seen him?” The Groke nods. “So he’s back in Moominvalley?” he asks, a little too excited, and she nods again. For the first time in a long time, Snufkin’s lip quirks in a smile. It doesn’t last long, as he’s all too aware of this strange creature’s proximity to him. Of what this means about him. About his illness. He breathes out slowly, smelling nicotine on his breath.

All his worst suspicions seem to be true.

“You think I’m like you.”

Another, slow nod. “It is cold,” she says, as if pointing out something significant, and her arms wrap around herself. “So alone.”

Snufkin turns up his nose at that. “Well, yes. But I happen to very much like being alone.” She seems surprised by his reply, and grunts in response. She looks across the valley, at a tall blue house and points as if it is an asking. “I would like to remain alone until I see him,” Snufkin concedes. “Now if you would, please leave me alone.”

The Groke looks terribly disappointed and hangs her head. Snufkin watches her walk away, and can’t help but notice that the path she walks seems unaffected by her. She walks as she always has – upset, and singing a despairing tune – but frost does not crawl away from her footsteps. It only forms at Snufkin’s own feet. He suppresses a shiver. The only thing to do for it is to keep moving.

He makes it to the bridge as the sun rises, and sits with his legs dangling above the water, watching patterns of ice march across it, but the water runs too fast, and the icicles are pushed away and melted as soon as they can form. As the sky becomes light, his pipe dies out. It does not relight, which rather frustrates Snufkin, so he drops the remaining tobacco down the stream and watches it float away. He instantly regrets it and pulls his hat over his face in shame.

No music. No smoking. No warmth at all. He cannot even fish, for his bitter aura makes the fish less eager to hunt near him, and when he bites into them the meat becomes cold no matter how well he cooks them anyway. Perhaps, he thinks for not the first, nor last time, it is best that Moomin never sees him like this.

That thought heralds a breeze so strong and crushing that Snufkin doubles over. His reflection is unsteady in the water, but clear enough to tell that Moomin will not like what there is to see. He’ll only worry him, he thinks. He can come back later in the year, when he’s feeling better – but when will that be?

How did The Groke overcome her curse? He should have asked her instead of sending her away, how foolish he had been. How foolish he has always been. If he leaves now and comes back later yet again, won’t Moomintroll only miss him more?

His mind races, thoughts whirling like a storm, and his fingers itch in his lap to grab his backpack and go. There’s still time, it’s much too early. Moomintroll wouldn’t even realise he was here, and perhaps he doesn’t have to travel so far away – just enough that…

Snufkin’s attention is drawn to Moominhouse, at a window that creaks as it opens.

His breath catches in his throat, which is oh so raw from smoke and ice. There he is, clean and white and so happy to see Snufkin that the Mumrik’s heart gives a painful shudder. “Snufkiiiin!” Moomin calls, his voice much too loud for this time of morning, but his excitement irrepressible.

Snufkin watches as his best friend, completely oblivious and optimistic, slides down the ladder leading to his room at a dangerous rate. When his feet touch the ground he begins to run until he’s at Snufkin’s side, and only when his panting turns to mist at Snufkin’s shoulder does he slow down.

“You’re back early,” Moomin cheers. “Not… Not that I’m complaining, of course. I’m actually really pleased! But aren’t you cold?”

Moomin – that sweet, naive Moomintroll – has still not noticed Snufkin’s condition. He supposes this is a blessing. They can share a real reunion, without fear or worry or sadness. A moment of calm before the storm, one might say. “Terribly,” he confesses, in his best imitation of a healthy Snufkin. “But I had to make sure you got my letter.”

Moomin grins. “I read it just yesterday. I’ve only just come back, you know. I have so many adventures to tell you about.” He says this in a gloating manner, proud of his achievements. “Do you mind if I help you set up camp?”

Glancing down at his paws, bunched up in his smock to keep them from shivering, Snufkin nods. “I’m sure I don’t mind at all.”

Moomintroll takes Snufkin’s backpack as a show of how his muscles have grown over his journey. Snufkin chuckles at that, but the chuckle brings about the soreness in his throat, and it rushes up in a cough. Moomin turns around to look at him, and Snufkin coughs again, and again, and again. His chest heaves. He stumbles back on numb legs, grasping the bridge for stability.

Hears Moomin call his name. Feels a paw on top of his. “What’s wrong? Are you sick!?” And then, Moomin decides to get a good look at Snufkin. He pushes his hat up to properly see his face. Snufkin tries desperately to avoid eye contact. His strength is far smaller than that of a worried Moomin, however and he never stood a chance at hiding it any longer. “Your face is so pale, Snufkin,” Moomin whines, “You’re so cold… What’s happened? Is it because you came back so early?”

And Snufkin can’t help but to laugh and cough and laugh. “No,” he manages breathlessly. “No, Moomintroll, that’s not- not it.” As he coughs and laughs and a few sounds somewhere in between, Moomin places a hand on his back and rubs, just like his Mamma does when he’s sick himself, and Snufkin feels all the more helpless for it.

When the coughing has passed, Moomintroll leads Snufkin back to Moominhouse. His arm wraps around Snufkin, holding him upright and he’s so warm and soft and comforting. He coaxes him with promises of a kettle and tea or coffee or chocolate – whichever Snufkin prefers. The moment they step off the bridge, the grass beneath them begins to darken into dead, blue curls. Snufkin knows Moomintroll has worked it out when he gasps at the coldness of the ground.

His gentle, caring Moomintroll doesn’t mention it however. They make their way home in blissful silence.


	2. Lonely in Moominhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snufkin is home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The author tries and fails to repress their love for Moominmamma, even though Moominmamma isn't all too important in this fic.

Inside Moominhouse there are blankets and sheets and pillows, and by the time Moomin is satisfied with Snufkin’s cocoon it's almost too tight for him to take the hot cocoa Moomin offers him. Snufkin manages, however, grasping the hot mug and inhaling the plumes of chocolate streaming from it like they're nicotine. Moomin sits beside him, another mug in his own hands, and leans against Snufkin's soft armour. 

For a long time, neither of them says anything, and Snufkin rests his half-finished drink on his lap, uninterested. Moomin takes it from him, realises it has cooled down, and offers Snufkin what’s left of his own, still-hot chocolate. Snufkin finishes that one faster, and Moomin places it with the cold one. In the silence, he whistles their song. Although he may not be the most musically gifted troll in Moominvalley, it wouldn’t quite be spring without music.

Snufkin dozes; and Moomintroll isn’t sure at all how lucid he is at any one time. He murmurs things, and clears his throat and blinks his bleary eyes, and Moomin feels him twitch and shiver beneath the blankets, which keep the outside warm, though he isn’t sure they help Snufkin at all. He begins to think back to Snufkin’s strange symptoms – his pale face, his cough, and the way the grass withered beneath him. That cold… It isn’t the cool of winter at all; with Snufkin all wrapped up the house is warm again, and only if Moomin touches that freezing paw can he feel the strange chill.

Snufkin is making the air around him colder.

It’s not like the Groke, he thinks to himself; he could hardly stand her presence. But he supposes that one’s cold would be quite different from the next, too. Perhaps, the loneliness that the Groke felt could exist in other ways.

Is Snufkin feeling lonely?

So many times Snufkin has affirmed his feelings on loneliness – he’s a vagabond, and he does like his time alone. More than anything, when he’s upset he wants to be left to himself. He doesn’t crave attention in the way that Moomintroll always had, and he never feels dissatisfied without people to care for or whom can care for him… Isn’t that what he’s always said about himself?

The Groke – all Moomin had needed to do to free her from her ailment was to embrace her, and offer her his company, and listen to her. Snufkin… has shown no improvement yet. When he squeezes that frozen paw it becomes no warmer. Perhaps it will be a matter of time. He hopes so. 

Then comes the issue of everyone else. Little My and Moominpappa and even Moominmamma – they never understood The Groke like Moomin could, they never gave her a chance. So many people had feared her, spread gossip and lies about what she would do to them. Would they do that to Snufkin, too, if they found out?

Surely not. It’s Snufkin, after all. Everybody in Moominvalley likes him, and Moominmamma would never let him be cast out of the house.

Regardless, when he hears the other three upstairs stir from their sleeps, Moomintroll makes a silent promise to keep Snufkin’s secret as well as he can. At least until Snufkin wakes up and can explain everything himself.

Moominmamma comes down the stairs first, still tying her apron. She stops abruptly when she notices the boys sitting on her couch, and Moomin smiles shyly. “Good morning, Mamma.”

“Good morning, Moomintroll. Snufkin’s arrived already?” Moomin nods. “Oh, dear," she says, taking a closer look. "What’s wrong with him?”

Moomin explains as vaguely as he can that Snufkin is sick and no - he cannot tell them more than that, and then he explains it a second time when Moominpappa and Little My join them, so that everyone in the house knows to be careful and patient with him. Of course, Little My asks questions which are far more intrusive and persistent, but Mamma steps in to hush her, and while Snufkin naps, the family eats Mamma’s famous pancakes – this time seasoned with lemon curds.

She sets a plate close to Snufkin, and whispers kind words to pull him from his sleep. When her gentle prodding doesn’t work, she gives in to his tired face, and Moomin doesn’t blame her for not trying harder.

“I don’t think Snufkin’s ever been asleep this late.” Little My snarks, “Only person who sleeps in this late is you, Moominpappa.”

At this, Pappa flushes, and he’s about to defend himself when Moomin speaks over him. “I think he was hiking most of the night. He was waiting at the bridge very early.”

“How peculiar,” Mamma observes, and then she pushes the conversation to brighter topics.

* * *

 

Snufkin awakes to the clutter of a kitchen being cleaned. His eyes flutter and his chest feels tight. His thoughts scream that he has been here too long, he must camp elsewhere. Alone. When he tries to move, however, he finds himself trapped under a dreadful weight of blankets. No matter how many, he can’t escape the cold. It’s not helpful. Not even here, by the stove in the cosy Moominhouse, can Snufkin feel the mercy of warmth. 

He pulls away some of the blankets – just enough to move – and he stands with them draped around him like a winter coat. He takes the pancakes he assumes were left for him, and eats as much as he can before they lose their warmth. The Moominfamily are all preoccupied, so he grabs his backpack, and sneaks to the front door as quietly as he can.

“Where are you going, Snufkin?” Little My shouts with a fiendish grin.

With a defeated sigh, Snufkin turns around. The Moomins have stopped what they are doing, standing at the entry to the kitchen, watching him, and Little My taps her foot expectantly, watching with keen green eyes. No point in lying; that Little Mymble knows him far better than he would like. “I was going to put up my tent,” he admits. “What I need right now is fresh air.”

Moominmamma is the one to approach him, wiping soap on her apron. “Let us help you, dear,” she declares, and feels his face for any warmth. When she finds none, she seems just as upset as if she were to discover a blazing fever. “You’re ice cold.”

Her touch, he must admit, is quite assuring. Still, he feels so horribly trapped in this house, no matter how nice it may be. “I really can’t stay, Moominmamma.”

“Well then,” Moominpappa starts, “How about we compromise somehow…” he taps at his chin as he ponders. After a moment, he finds his eureka. “We could put the hammock up in the landing, that way you don’t have to trouble yourself or wander too far.”

Snufkin looks between the Moomins and his usual campsite – still green and lush and untouched by his awful affliction. Isn’t this what he’s been waiting for so many months now? To be back in Moominhouse, with Moomintroll and his family?

They don’t want to trap him.

He knows that now.

Yet…

He feels caged. The pull he has towards them – towards Moomintroll – it’s stifling. They may not say it aloud, but there are ever so many expectations between them, and Snufkin cannot help but feel guilty when he cannot reach those. He hates to let Moomintroll down, and he is being watched with such worried blue eyes... 

“I…” he chokes, shivers. “I suppose… that is a good idea.”

If Moominpappa notices Snufkin’s hesitance, he doesn’t show it. “Right then,” he claps his hands, smiling, “Moomintroll, Little My, come help me.”

“Why me?” retorts Little My, but she follows Pappa outside anyhow. Moomin gives a knowing smile, and Snufkin thinks better of thanking Pappa for steering My out of the way. That leaves him with Moominmamma. She prepares him some tea, and sits beside him with her grandmother’s book, asking questions about his symptoms.

Snufkin is evasive. He’s honest that he’s cold, and honest about his sore throat, but those are things obvious to any observer. When she asks him how long he’s been this way, however, his cheeks flush a shameful red. “Please dear,” Mamma elaborates, “I need to know if I’m going to help you.”

“I…” he almost says that he doesn’t think there is a cure, but then he recalls that encounter. The Groke – she was healthy, warm, even. She was _warm_! He shouldn't have sent her away. Snufkin shoots up, spilling his tea. Moominmamma panics, reaching for a towel to dry him off.

“Be careful dear, you’ll burn.”

Then she pries the tea from his claws. The tea which has already lost all it’s heat, which has become iced around the edges. She stares at it with wide eyes, and then stares back at Snufkin’s pale, yet familiar face.

“I think there’s only one person who can help me, Moominmamma.” His voice trembles.

He can see in her eyes that she knows.

She sets aside the tea, wringing anxious paws, confused, and in Snufkin’s heart there is a sorrow he’s never known. A fear of losing her. A fear of losing all of them.

He thinks, perhaps, that she will send him out happily. Allow him to return to his tent and spare her beloved gardens from his dreadful presence.

“Oh, dear.” She says instead. “Oh, my.” She reaches for his face again, feeling the cold of his body for herself, and the shock in her eyes turns to sympathy. “What could ever be so horrible that it does this to you?”

He pulls the blankets tighter around him. “Nothing,” he replies. “Nothing so horrible has happened.” There was nothing that was strange or new. Nothing except November – when the Moomins were gone, and Snufkin felt oh so horrible for leaving without saying goodbye, and oh so much worse for not getting a goodbye in return.

Is that how it felt for Moomintroll?

He did that, to him. To all of them. He hurt Moomintroll, so, so much.

The cold is biting – Snufkin squeezes himself to keep it in, but Moominmamma’s breath comes out in a fog, and she pulls her paws back. “Snufkin, dear, do calm down. Tell me what’s wrong?”

He knows what’s wrong. “Me.”

“What ever do you mean?”

“It’s me,” Snufkin pulls away. “I did this to myself. It’s my own selfish actions, Moominmamma.”

“What’s going on in here?” Moominpappa asks sternly. “Did somebody forget to close a window?”

“Snufkin?” Moomintroll?

“Look at the floor!” Little My calls, pointing. “It’s like the river in Winter, huh Moomin?”

“Snufkin…” Moomintroll…

Frozen, all Snufkin can do is look between the family. He feels trapped – surrounded. They’re closing in. Claustrophobia. He breathes in a sharp breath of cold air, and chatters as he breathes out words even colder. “I’m sorry,” he says, the guilt overbearing.

Moomintroll’s arms wrap around him and Snufkin stiffens. “No, Snufkin. You don’t have to apologise!” Moomin cries. “I’ll help you, just like I helped her, I promise.”

 _Just like I helped her_.

Everything else vanishes. It’s just him and Moomintroll, now. It’s a blanket of warm silk, a softer and cleaner embrace than he ever thought he would want. Far better than a tramp like him ever deserved. “You… Moomintroll, _you_ cured The Groke?”

“I think so… Or… I… _thought_ I did. Oh, Snufkin…” He’s crying – fat, wet tears that drip onto Snufkin’s own cheeks. Snufkin sighs, and finds his claws itching to tighten their hold. As Moomintroll sobs, and the guilt in his soul crashes against his chest, he finally gives in, tugging on tufts of white fur.

“I’m sorry, Moomintroll…” he wants to say again, but doesn’t.

When they finally part, and Snufkin makes his way to the hammock, his footprints don’t freeze into the floorboards, even if he leaves them all with parting shivers.

* * *

 

Days later, spring has returned to Moominvalley in full. Glimpses of colour dance through tall grasses in the wind, and the forests sing with the sound of small creatures in love. Snufkin watches all of this from the porch of Moominhouse.

When Moomin comes home, his friend’s eyes wander in a way that he himself cannot, swaying on his hammock as the sun falls low. He’s holding a mug of steaming water for no reason other than to soothe his paws, and he seems comfortable in the new coat Mamma made him. She sewed together scraps of their winter bedding, reasoning that they needed replacing anyway. Moomintroll knows that she did it because Snufkin hates things that are new. The fabric still holds familiar scents, and it’s been softened with use, not like the coats one would buy from a vendor: which smell only of dye and lack a sense of love.

Things are far from normal, but Snufkin seems to have settled into his new life well. He may sleep during the mornings now, but in the afternoons he walks, sticking away from gardens, and close to paths, and during the evenings he casts his line off the bridge, where he’s high enough that the fish don’t notice his cold aura, and he can only sit comfortably for about an hour at most. Moomin isn’t sure how he spends his nights – but he’s always sleeping through breakfast.

Socially, things could be better. Mamma and Pappa try not to talk about his condition too much, and those in Moominvalley smart enough to figure it out make an effort to ignore him, but nobody’s been outright cruel.

In the meantime, Moomin still plays throughout most of the days. He’s starting to get a little old for games, but Sniff and Little My still enjoy them, and when the two are content to play alone, he’ll sit with Snufkin and read, or look for shells on the beach or stones in the river or whatever else takes his fancy at the time. Every evening however he’ll search for The Groke. But every night, he’ll come home without success.

“Any luck this evening?” Moomin asks, though he can already smell a fish stew brewing inside.

“Quite so,” Snufkin answers. “Moominmamma offered to cook my usual, too. She thought perhaps it might make me feel more comfortable.”

“Does it?”

“It’s nice to have a Mamma to cook for you, no matter what she may cook,” Snufkin replies jovially. “How was your luck, Moomintroll?”

“Same as usual… I just don’t get it,” he complains. “After all those nights together on the island, I thought I had meant something to her.”

“Perhaps she decided she needed a change,” he replies after a short while, and Moomin groans at the cryptic answer. “You were close to her, don’t you know what cured her?”

“I thought it was _me_ … but that’s silly, isn’t it, Snuff? If it were me, then she wouldn’t have gone away.”

“Not necessarily,” Snufkin looks somewhere far off. “Perhaps she did need you. But now that you’ve helped her, she doesn’t, and so she left.”

“That’s awfully unfair,” Moomin grumbles.

“It is. You deserve better.”

An uncomfortable feeling settles. Moomin tries to look at Snufkin’s face, but he’s guarded himself well. Instead, Moomin sighs, and leans on his paws as he watches the sun fade behind the treeline. “Perhaps I just need to search later in the evening.”

“I’m out most nights,” Snufkin explains. “I haven’t seen her either.” Moomin groans even louder, and this time, Snufkin lets out a breathy chuckle. “Well, what was it that you did that helped her, do you think?”

“I thought… Maybe just being there did it.” Moomin reaches for Snufkin’s arm, not any less cold than it had been the day before, or the day before that. Snufkin places down his mug, freeing a space in his paws for Moomin, and it’s almost warm there. “But if that was all it takes, you’d be better by now.”

“I suppose so.”

“She was lonely…”

“Seems like it.”

“Aren’t you lonely Snufkin?”

Snufkin is still and quiet, as if he needs to think about it. That’s all the answer Moomin needs. 

“You don’t have to be. I’m here for you, Snufkin. I’m always here.”

For the first time in what feels like forever, Snufkin meets his eyes. “Is that really true, Moomin?”

“Of course-“

“November.”

Moomin starts to reply, but can’t. _November_ … He wasn’t here in November. He wasn’t here when Snufkin came back early. He didn’t think it would hurt someone like Snufkin, whose nature is so free-spirited. He didn’t think-

“Don’t feel guilty about it.” Snufkin scolds him lightly, a soft smile on his lips, but he feels so, so cold. “It’s good that you left with your family. You had many adventures, and you’ve grown so much as a Moomintroll.”

“But, Snufkin, I-“

“You only did what I have done almost every year since we knew each other.”

And their conversation would stop there, for Little My bursts from the house in that moment to inform them of dinner’s readiness.

Snufkin releases Moomin’s hand first, and collects the mug from the rail where he left it. “We’ll be right there,” he assures her in his soft, sick voice. Moomin nods along, and watches the last glimmer of red fade into a deep, endless purple. He still feels sorry – but perhaps not for leaving with Moominpappa. There was never any intent to hurt Snufkin, there was no way he could have even known Snufkin would be affected when he left.

He feels sorry… for the way Snufkin is now. He feels sorry that he may be a part of that. His best friend’s voice is too deep, and croaky. His skin too pale, and when they touch it’s cold, not warm, and he remembers how horrible it felt to wait for Snufkin while he was away – how cold and lonely those days were.

He feels sorry for not listening to the things Snufkin never said. 

“Moomintroll,” Little My chides, when he doesn’t immediately move.

“Don’t rush me, Little My.”

* * *

 

Inside the house is alive with the clutter of dinnertime, and oh – how Moomintroll had missed this. Of course, not everything is perfect. Snork wouldn’t let Snorkmaiden over, fearful of Snufkin, no doubt, and Sniff had to be dragged by the tail to join them. Snufkin still wears that thick blue coat, and Little My makes a show of sitting on the opposite end of the table “So my stew doesn’t go cold,” and she pushes Sniff between them. Snufkin doesn’t at all seem bothered when Moominmamma and Moomin sit on either side of him – everyone else keeping their distance.

“I hope you like it, Snufkin. Since I didn’t have a recipe, I’m not sure I made it quite like you wanted it.”

“Recipes are far too restricting,” Snufkin reassures her, after swallowing down a spoonful. “Besides, your cooking is the best in Moominvalley. If you ask me, you’ve improved it.”

Moomintroll agrees – as much as he appreciates Snufkin’s fish stew, it’s always been rather bland. Mamma has embellished it with a new gravy and herbs, and much more vegetables. It’s all rather peaceful. Moomintroll and Moominmamma have no trouble eating their stew, despite the paranoia of the other half of the table, and Snufkin finishes every last drop.

Soon it will be time for bed. Sniff will insist on walking home alone – the dark much less scary to him than an ill Snufkin – and Little My will bounce off the walls until bedtime (but don’t tell her it’s bedtime, or she will bounce off the walls even longer out of spite). Moominmamma will likely take to knitting over a cup of tea, and Moominpappa will return to his younger, more adventurous days through his memoirs. Moomintroll looks awkwardly at Snufkin. He would like to stay up late talking to him, as they do most nights, but their earlier discussion still has him feeling uncomfortably upset.

When all is said and done, he decides to go straight to bed.

In the lighthouse, he found he didn’t think of Snufkin so much. Even if he was so far away, Moomintroll hadn’t missed him. He was happy for Snufkin; he was beginning to understand what it was like to go on journeys on one’s own, and to be wise and thoughtful and helpful.

He was sure, when they got together again, that he could smooth out all the wrinkles in their friendship and be renewed. Their differences wouldn’t matter anymore.

Now, they are so close. Even from his window, Moomin can taste the foul smoke from a pipe, floating up from where Snufkin sits on the hammock and swings. He’s probably got a coffee, too, and is probably talking to Moominmamma through the window about the things that two people with kind and wise hearts often have on their minds. Now more than ever he misses Snufkin.

And he longs to be down there.

And he longs to talk to Snufkin.

And he longs to swing on the hammock together.

And he longs to understand him.

And for nothing but a thin layer of warmth to come between them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Truth be told, this was written to be a one-shot fic, but spacing it out means more interactivity. More comments, more chances for people to find it in recent searches. Please, by all means, comment. I'm at school this week (teaching) and would love to be able to see your comments, especially since I had a pretty depressing first day. If you're shy, feel free to just post an emoji to represent your feelings! i won't reply but all emoji are good emoji to react with. My personal feelings are ☕


	3. When One Needs to Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moomin discovers where Snufkin goes at night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've finally reached the end. Thank you all for your lovely comments in the previous chapters, I'm sorry I was too anxious to reply, but they all made me smile.

For the first time in a long time, Moomin misses Snufkin so much that he can’t sleep. He’s still awake, staring at the ceiling with all his troubled thoughts when the final light in Moominhouse goes out. At this point, frustrated, he looks out the window, and finds a blue ghost floating along the path towards the bridge. He haunts the valley clumsily - legs unsteady, and leaving the grass lining the path to wither with cold. 

Moomin hasn't been awake to see where it is Snufkin goes these nights.

Guilt, sadness, concern. They all coil in his chest and Moomintroll finds himself in a bind over whether he should let Snufkin know he’s still awake. Perhaps Snufkin needs this time at night, just like he’s always needed winter.

Perhaps it’s selfish to want to go with him, but Moomin supposes Snufkin can always tell him no. He pushes open the window, he says his best friend’s name in the quiet of the night.

There’s no doubt Snufkin noticed – he immediately halts, then turns around. If Moomin squints, he might be able to see by Snufkin’s face whether he’s wanted, but instead he waits for Snufkin to wave at him. He does; a big, sweeping gesture that says “Come on, down,” and so Moomin grabs his scarf and climbs down the rope ladder.

When he touches the floor, Snufkin is still waiting for him, and Moomin runs to catch up. Only as he gets closer does he realise Snufkin is carrying something.

“I only brought one towel,” Snufkin points out with a whimsical smile. “That’s if you plan to join me, at least.”

“Perhaps you can’t get much colder,” Moomin huffs, “But I don’t want to catch a cold swimming in this weather.”

The smile doesn’t waver, Snufkin only shrugs and turns around – heading still in the same direction. “We’ll see.” If Moomintroll looks closely, he can see a sly tug at Snufkin’s lips, though perhaps that's a trick of the moonshadows.

With nothing better to do, he follows still, a little worried for his friend, if he's honest. “I don’t think this is the best way to get better, Snufkin. You’ll probably only make yourself colder.”

Snufkin brusquely changes the subject. “What are you still doing up, Moomintroll?”

Thank goodness for the darkness, as Snufkin wouldn’t be able to see the furious pink of Moomin's face as his feelings churn once again. “Before dinner…” he says shyly. “You got mad at me.”

Snufkin doesn’t look back, doesn’t stop moving. One might think he hadn’t heard at all, but Moomintroll is used to Snufkin’s natural mask by now. “I’m sorry, Moomin. I shouldn’t hold that against you.”

“I know that… But- I still… if I hadn’t left, would this have happened?”

“It didn’t happen that way, so I don’t suppose it matters now. Best to just move on.” Snufkin veers off the path, along a new path of his own creation. The grass is dead long before Snufkin’s feet touch it, and it crunches horribly when stepped on. If it continues straight, then it will take them towards the Mountains.

They certainly aren’t heading towards the beach. Perhaps a lake?

“But, I think I do need to apologise, Snufkin. For leaving like that. It feels right that I do. I didn’t know how you’d feel, and I need you to know that I won’t do it again now that I do know.”

Even though the forest is dense, all the trees have frozen brittle – branches snapped away to clear their journey. Moomin can see a piece of Snufkin’s own smock snagged on one of the fallen twigs. It’s dark, and quiet, but his frustration and sadness give him the strength to not cower. “So, I’m sorry, Snufkin.”

Snufkin looks at him, just for a moment with his sad smile. “An apology is an awfully big commitment,” he says, “I’m not certain I’ve earned it.”

“Apologies are the sorts of things one doesn’t need to earn to deserve.”

Uphill – into the mountains. Where could they possibly be headed?

Moomin ponders this as they walk the rest of the way in silence, but it's a much more comfortable silence in Moomin's mind. Perhaps still lonely, but not in such a painful way anymore. He must be patient, he recalls. He must not give up. He must listen. 

The trees thin and he's no closer to knowing what to say or do, so he settles for following. He tries to catch up to Snufkin's pace, but Snufkin walks too fast for him to truly catch up, and he's left a few steps behind. Unlike the Groke, who tried so hard to get close to Moomintroll, Snufkin seems insistent on keeping him at a distance. His mind, Moomin supposes, must make his cold out to be very much more dangerous than it is. 

Snufkin stops when the air starts to become particularly humid, and locates a rock that's slightly taller, and twice as wide as him. He turns around, giving Moomin the most peculiar stare. “I forgive you. Of course.”

Moomin cannot help his pride at that. However, as he takes in their new and strange surroundings, his mind wanders to other details. 

“Where are we, Snufkin?”

The smile on Snufkin’s face is bigger than Moomin has seen it since his return. “Remember that time I found a certain hidden hotspring?”

If possible, Moomin’s excitement swells further. “It’s here?” he gawks. For the hotspring was something Snufkin had gone through great lengths to hide from those who might abuse it, and only Moominpappa had ever been there to heal his ills. It's not so much that Snufkin didn't trust Moomin, but in all their conversations the idea of using the hotspring himself had never occurred to Moomintroll. 

“It’s here.”

“Oh, Snufkin, that is _delightful_.”

Before Snufkin can stop him, Moomin is throwing off his scarf – somewhere in the direction of Snufkin’s towel – and rushing ahead. The air leaves warm dew on his fur, and it isn’t long before he finds the source of the steam. Even on this cold winter night, the water is heavenly warm, and as Moomin sinks in, the strangest feelings of calm wash over him.

He takes it all back. This place is perfect for one who is sick or cold. The pool is shallow enough that Moomin can sit back, stretching his toes and swishing his tail, all while the warm water reaches up to his neck and under his chin. It smells lovely, too – pine needles are in the air still, the pollen of wildflowers drifting on the wind. 

“What do you think?” there’s a stir in the water next to him, and Moomin fights the natural instinct to check in the direction of the noise. When he does finally look, Snufkin has also let the water run up to his neck, using the shallowness of the pool to lean his head on a moss-covered stone. “Not so bad for a cold, is it?”

Moomin sighs. “I suppose I should apologise for this, too,” he adds with a giggle, and watches Snufkin open a lazy eye at him, before they both retreat into the quiet of darkness again.

It’s nice. Warm, too. The pool is so big and so hot that it quickly replaces any cold Snufkin brings with him, and Moomin supposes this must have been his only relief through the past few days. This piece of heaven in the forests of the mountains.

“Do you feel it, Snufkin?” Moomintroll whispers, as if someone would overhear them all the way out here.

He smiles. “Feel what?”

“The heat, silly.”

“I can.” Then, his eyes open, and his smile drops away.

For a long time, they lie there in silence. The night is cool - a bright half-moon shining down on them, stars dusting the endless blue. However, the peace between them grows tense, and Moomin can hear the symptoms of discomfort in his friend; a cough, unsteady breathing, movement in the water.

Eventually, Moomin gives in. “Is everything okay, Snufkin?”

“There’s... something I should say to you.” Moomin sits up, watching curiously as his friend struggles through his introversion. “I think I’ve held back long enough.”

Snufkin looks far too vulnerable. Under the blanket of night, his pale skin shines blue, and his voice is ever so quiet, drifting on huffs of impossibly cold air. His cheeks and his nose are flushed purple with the heat of the spring and perhaps some embarrassment, too, and oh, his eyes. Moomin has only ever once seen eyes like that, long ago on a boy whose heart broke at the loss of the sea.

And when his mouth opens to explain what could possibly hurt him as much as losing the sea- he chokes on the words just as fast, and it looks like he’s about to back out. Frustrated tears begin to form.

“Snufkin?” Moomin sits up, eyes pleading, voice gentle. “What’s the matter? You can talk to me.”

“I’m…” Snufkin sucks in a deep breath. “ _Sorry._ ”

Now this confuses Moomin. For all he had been concerned about were his own actions, for the way he had treated Snufkin, and for having not thought of his friend nearly enough on his travels. All he could think were all the things he could do to help Snufkin, and he wants to tell Snufkin that there's nothing to apologise for. But a wise part of him decides to wait, as his friend is hit with a new wave of energy. The tears flow, and he can’t do much to hide it without his hat so he pulls his paws up and ducks his head and crystals drop from his eyes to melt in the water below him.

Although it breaks his heart, Moomin knows he shouldn’t hold Snufkin back from crying. A much needed cry, perhaps, for when was the last time that Snufkin had let himself feel? So instead, he places a paw on his shoulder and cries with him. Softer, gentler tears, not really knowing what they’re crying about but knowing it hurts to see his friend hurt. “Oh, Snufkin…” 

“I’m sorry, Moomintroll,” Snufkin sobs again. “I’d never felt so lonely.”

Loneliness, Moomintroll is all too familiar with. He wants to say that it wasn’t Snufkin’s fault, but there’s more to be said, he's sure of it, and he’d be a fool to jump to conclusions. This is no time to be a fool.

“Waiting for you… I didn’t know where you were. What happened. Nobody did.”

And he’s hiccing, and sniffing and Moomin gives in, wrapping his arms around Snufkin, unbothered by the cold droplets that melt into the fur of his back or how strange they might seem to anybody who might pass by. “I know,” Moomin tries to reassure him.

“And it was…” Snufkin adds, “ _Me_. It was my own fault. I did that to you. So many years.”

Moomin’s skin feels sore where Snufkin digs in his claws. There’s a cold, uneasy breeze on his neck where Snufkin pants and cries. He can't think of any way to respond, because he can’t say he didn’t feel awful. There were times, of course, where waiting for Snufkin got easier, but it was always hard. It was always a depressing state.

Cold. Lonely. Like the Groke. The thing he loves most in the world far away, out of reach no matter how hard he tries to reach it. Not until he knew what it was like to be the one reached for. 

“I didn’t know how it felt… I didn’t say goodbye, I even forgot to leave a letter…” His grip tightens painfully again, before a sob makes him shudder, and his body goes languish. ”I’m so sorry, Moomintroll,” he says, defeated. “You deserved better.”

“But you did,” Moomintroll sniffs. “Leave a letter. Last November. I read it on the first day back.”

The pathetic whimpering dies in Snufkin’s throat. “It wasn’t enough,” he whispers. “So many years…”

“It’s happened already. So, there’s no use thinking about what could have happened.” Moomin rubs the smooth skin of Snufkin’s back, soothing out the sobs and gasps he heaves. “That’s what you said before, isn’t it? And. Well, I never resented you,” Moomintroll reassures him. “Even if I wanted to be with you, I knew you had to be alone. I was happy for you.”

Snufkin lets go, finally, though his paws hover on Moomin’s shoulders, and he doesn’t slink his body away. There’s something that’s still so unsteady about him, but he manages to sit upright again, looking rather small.

He stares at Moomin’s chest rather than at his face, and Moomin takes a moment to wipe his own tears. “I think I was wrong about being alone, too…”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought that… people were. If I got close to anybody, I’d be trapped, and I… But that’s not true. I was mistaken…”

“What are you trying to say, Snufkin?”

“Goodness… it’s difficult to say aloud.”

Snufkin sighs, and the energy leaves him once again. He pulls away from Moomin entirely, wiping his cheeks clean before he settles back into position, staring at the stars and the moon through the treetops. His breathing still comes in quiet sobs, but each one becomes less noticeable. 

For a while, Moomin is sure he has to keep an eye on Snufkin but it seems… it seems like the moment is over, and he’s stuck processing the conversation, so he lies down, too.

Of course being alone all those winters was upsetting. Of course never knowing when Snufkin was leaving was upsetting. Of course having no idea if he’d ever return was upsetting. It hurt. What if Snufkin simply decided he was bored and decided never to return? Or if something Moomin had done made him want to leave sooner. All those troubles in his head caused quite a fuss. Moomin learned, though. He’s had plenty of time to desensitise to the distance, to learn how to enjoy being alone.

And yet the apology brings forward so many feelings. So much loneliness and hurt and he didn’t realise it but perhaps he wasn’t as okay with it as he thought, because the difference of Snufkin acknowledging how much it hurts is so great.

It warms his heart. To be recognised.

“I forgive you,” Moomintroll says, just to be sure Snufkin knows it.

“An apology is an awfully big commitment.” Snufkin chuffs, though it is somehow a sad sound. “I do hate rules...”

“Is that why it took you so long to apologise?”

He was half-joking, but Snufkin turns his head to give him a rather serious look. “Precisely.” He says, stoic. Then, abruptly, he laughs again, and it’s bright and clear, and music to Moomin’s ears.

He wants to stay like this forever.

“I won’t, though.” Snufkin is looking away again – anything to avoid eye contact. Moomin smiles and follows suit, but he can’t help but steal glances at his friend; at his odd serendipity. He wonders how long this apology has had Snufkin in conflict. He wonders how many other silent conflicts Snufkin struggles with, ready to burst within him at a moment's notice and to wash away just as fast.  “I won’t leave you without being clear about what I’m doing…” He bites his lip. “Well, not for more than a day or so. That’s a commitment I am willing to make.”

“And I won’t try to make you stay longer,” Moomintroll promises in turn. “I’ll let you go when you need it, and so long as you come back on time, I’ll be here.”

Snufkin turns his head and catches Moomin looking at him, and they both grin, and it’s nice. Even though Moomin would stay like this forever, he knows that they can’t. Crickets chirp out a spring tune, and Snufkin hums along with them, and Moomin closes his eyes and simply feels with all his soul. It so happens that his soul feels sleepy, and a breath escapes as a  yawn, so Snufkin creeps out of the hot spring to put some clothes on. A moment later, he returns simply to shake Moomin from his dozing. 

The walk home stretches much further past Moomin’s bedtime, and he leans on Snufkin as they walk, once again dry and dressed in a scarf, and Snufkin plays the song the crickets sang, and it isn’t until Snufkin is tucking him in that he realises.

“You’re not cold anymore.”

“I’m not. Perhaps you really are the cure, Moomintroll.”

However Moomin shakes his head. “Don’t be silly, Snufkin.” He yawns. “That was… all your doing.”

“You should sleep.” He attempts to tuck Moomin in once again, but Moomin interrupts him.

“No, not yet.” He yawns again, big and tired and Snufkin gives him an amused look. “Why don’t we share a bed tonight? It’ll be more comfortable than the living room or the hammock.”

“What about the guest bed?”

“Do you really want to deal with Little My in the morning?”

Snufkin considers it, then his lip twists at some unseen torment. “You have a point.”

* * *

 

His boots come off again, then his scarf and his coat and his hat, until he's only in his undershirt and trousers, which are still quite dirty but not as much so. There’s plenty of room, though the bedsheets are admittedly a bit newer than he’d like. But beneath the blankets the bed is cosy and toasty, and he can settle his forehead against Moomintroll’s freshly washed fur and close his eyes and get lost in this feeling. It’s been so long.

Far too long.

He breathes in so deep it probably sounds like he’s crying all over again, but he’s only exhilarated at how easily the breath comes, at being so close to his friend without fear of hurting him, at finally, truly understanding this splendid troll, and being understood by him.

“Even though I miss you when you’re gone,” Moomin speaks in quiet whispers, “I have a lot of fun, too. So you don’t need to feel bad when you need your alone time.”

Snufkin’s body curls into that warm nook between Moomin and the blanket, and if it bothers him, Moomintroll doesn’t mention it. “I don’t think I need alone time anymore.” Moomintroll doesn’t reply. “Not as much as I thought I did. I want to travel, still… but perhaps we could…” His friend breathes heavily, evenly, and when Snufkin holds his breath to build up courage, he realises Moomin is quite asleep. “I’ll ask another time…” he decides, and wills himself to sleep, with nothing but their own shared body heat between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And... that's the end. I'd like to write a story about Moomin and Snufkin eventually travelling together as an unofficial sequel, but for now, I think this serves them well. Thank you so much for sticking with me to this point. I hope you enjoyed this, because I had so much fun writing it. This fandom has woken up something wonderful inside me and I have so many ideas and thoughts to share about it, so perhaps we'll see each other again in a future fic.
> 
> EDIT: [For the sequel, click here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19482121)

**Author's Note:**

> As said in the tags, I consider Moomin and Snufkin a queerplatonic couple personally, but they don't really have the vocabulary to describe it. You're free to interpret this how you'd like, tho. Labels aren't important here. 
> 
> This all started because I wanted something along the lines of 'invisible Snufkin' but also... different. Watching Moominvalley.... this Groke Snufkin idea just clicked. I wasn't the only one to come up with this, btw. [Here,](https://pebblite.tumblr.com/post/185595412395) and [Here](https://pebblite.tumblr.com/post/185711124191) is some amazing art from someone who had a very similar idea.


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